Withering Roses and Stained Hands
by Bony Hearts
Summary: Born with a 'cursed' gift, expected to reach an inevitable end, little John never knew what would happen to himself, except for the belief to be a sacrifice, devoured by a dragon. Bonded with the land, the lives, the Dragon waited for His Child and for the green to come back to his dried infinite soul. Child!John, Dragon!Lock


**Title:** Withering Roses and Stained Hands

**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC)

**Rating:** T

**Genre**: Fantasy, Angst

**Summary: **Born to be with a 'cursed' gift, to reach an inevitable end, John never knew what would happen, except for the belief to be a sacrifice, devoured by a dragon. Bonded with the land, the lives, the Dragon waited for His Child and for the green to come back to his dried infinite soul. Child!John, Dragon!Lock

**Disclaimer:** Maybe one day when I finally change my name into Arthur Conan Doyle...

**Author's note:**The idea comes out of nowhere (or my obsession about Fantasy/Supernatural genre and Child!John ) and out of the busiest time of my life. But for the sake of my restlessness, the bunny haunted me in my sleep, a cute little 'creature' that can do daunting things. So hand-tied, I must sit down and type all of it out of my head. And this is self-beta'ed.

Enjoy.

* * *

**1.  
xxx **

John still remembered the look his mother sent him at that moment, fading and pained and hopeless under the mask of indifference. Her hands found his cheeks, so cold and he stilled himself not to flinch from the frigid touch. He wanted to lean into it, to seek for the warmth he had craved so much, to hum in contentment with the soft caresses. But her hands had always been smooth and cold to feel.

John had never felt more alone in his life.

He saw Harry hiding behind the door leading to his bedroom, her brows painted on her face in hard lines, her irises clear with lost and shattered reassurance (– just for John, assuring that everything would be fine, that even if they closed their eyes and prayed and wished uselessly, not sure whether someone would hear or response back, at least they had seeded in their souls ignorant belief, because they were just so desperate, they didn't know what else they could do), short curly ashen blond hair framing that delicate face of her (John knew his sister would be a beautiful woman someday, if only he could be with her to witness her change). John could see the slightly swollen and reddish skin under her eyes and he held on that fact, like a greedy, desperate man holding onto the thing keeping him from falling.

(His father was nowhere to be seen.)

And his mother's fingertips still dripped with coldness, shedding into his inside through the infant skin, holding him, embracing him with fear. He wished to scream, wishing to cry, promising to be good (I don't talk back to Harry again, no more sneaking up for sweets and cookies, not sleeping late anymore, I won't even run off to the town without permission even if Billy is there and Mary had promised good cakes).

Just don't send him **away**.

"Show me your hand, dear," his mother asked, her voice like glass, stainless and cutting. John did as told, raising his left hand and she dropped a seed into his small palm.

Little fist coiled, keeping the seed in a gentle iron grip every child possessed. John opened his hand again, everyone watching as the seed slowly grown and turned into a rose. His mother smiled, satisfied with the result but not with what made it, her eyes breaking, "Very good, Johnny."

John smiled back at her; his mouth cringed at the edges. And Harry turned away, running to her room with head in her hands.

**xxx**

The journey to the High Palace – Head of Country - was uneven, many stops and too many whispers and stares. All John wanted to do was to curl into a ball, press tight into his own childish body and rock himself to the never-ending sleep on his far too big bed on the governmental plane. But he knew Lady Gin would not be happy; the crinkle of the silky, luxurious fabric, the slumming-down shoulders, the distressed, tired and shy eyes and behaviors would displease her, putting a scowl onto her already well-lined and narrow face. Weird was that he knew what every twitch of her mouth and every glint of her too pale and protruding eyes meant.

On the first day John met Lady Gin (– Mother stood far away with Harry besides (no father), more and more fading into the crowd as he passed the stairs and disappeared into the plane, glancing back with heavy eyes just for a glimpse but John was unable to catch any of his family. So panic, so lonely. And he longed for a warm hug, for someone who would scoop John up and murmuring reassurance –), those eyes had given him terror, making him oh so uncomfortable with the insight gaze, peering into his soul, knowing what would make him tick, squirm, cry and fear.

Already a child, John felt even smaller and more helpless, scared but could not refuse to raise his hand for the old lady to take. His heart beat hard, acknowledging that surrounding him now was an unknown world, having to give his trust to the people he didn't know enough to be trusty, but having no other choices. Life was suddenly an edge; John had no idea if and when he would fall.

**xxx**

In Mortos, High Official Mike Stamford welcomed John with fatty arms wide open and artificial smiles, never standing near him less than two strides of footsteps.

Stamford's hands always seemed ready to slap John's back or touch him in someway, but not crossing the line, especially when Lady Gin's mind would never forget her duty. But it was disturbing, the racking look Mike sent John's way, too curious and too amused with judges. It was like he was an exhibited object behind the glass of the National Museum, a precious, rare thing to stare and talk over.

John found himself more and more reserved, walking near to Lady Gin more than necessary, letting her steady figure and demonstrator give him invisible support to stand people's stares and whispers while John just desired to hide somewhere, far-far-far away from all of this.

People looked at him like a wonder, but John could spot behind that admiration and awe there was relief. Relieved that it was not them, not their kids, not their families, that it was him, it was John, poor, poor John with his power and his sad but sacred end.

(And John missed Harry, missing her laughs and her annoying taunting. John missed his mother's cold touches; in the coldness mingled with fear, John would somehow found safety. He even missed his father, missing his unclear or to be exact, blank face because of the lack of seeing between him and his son.

John missed them. How much he missed all of them.

Not this. Not this. Not this.

Anywhere but here.

Please.)

After many talking, meeting and smiling, John would eventually be allowed to retired to his room, curling up with sheet, wishing in mumbled prayers they would soon leave the place.

**xxx**

They departed from Mortos two days later (much to John relief, and he actually grinned back genuinely at Official Stamford in his short-lived bliss) and arrived at Quaria.

Lestrade, the Mayor of Quaria, was warm; his eyes tired with work and experience but holding a cozy feeling, his hands calloused, wrapping John's hands up neatly and kindly when the middle-aged man knelt and kissed John's knuckles as a old formality, radiating calm warmth, his smile tiny, strained yet not tight, sometimes tinged with kindness and softness when he could catch John's eyes.

Lestrade had led him sightseeing around his District, trailed behind by guards and the hawk-eyes of Lady Gin. The land smelled of sweats from hard-working and well-bent backs, strong arms, steady feet and broad shoulders and warm laughter from the fields and shops and painted with hard glistening amours, dark well-built muscles of horses and rich golden wheat.

A welcome place, not wealthy, but comfortable enough and peaceful.

They once passed a shop of sweets en route; on the front of the strong back of Mayor Lestrade's horse John eyes shone in brief seconds before the remembrance of manner lessons snapped at him. Instead John held back his eagerness and said it was fine to Lestrade concerned look and questions. They continued the trip and came back to the District's Palace afterward.

That evening, in his blue coat's pocket, John found a small bag of sweets.

**xxx**

At dinner John finished his plate quickly (as acceptable and noble as possible) then excused himself to return to his bedroom, looking Lady Gin in the eyes for her own confirmation and avoiding Mayor Lestrade's glance for his own safety (John wouldn't be able to stop his grin).

He got out of his stuffy clothes once he was safe in the four walls of his room, changed into the soft and comfortable nightgown and jumped onto his bed, hiding under the heavy blanket.

John opened his palm and in the dark admired a lovingly wrapped candy. Unwrapping the sweet John made sure in the morning he would deal with the evidence and popped the wonderful sugary little thing into his mouth.

When sweetness embraced his tongue, he tasted it as slowly as could, pressed his hands against his mouth to muffle the giggle bubbling up his throat. He giggled silently until the sound turned into sobs.

And sobs sailed him to dream.

**xxx**

John watched the group of Quaria officials with Mayor Lestrade standing straight-back, respectably to aside as his plane took off, rose from the ground and flied into the sky. His forehead pressed against the window and his breaths frosted it. John tried and knew it was in vain to catch any sight of Lestrade or even Quaria from above. Green, rich golden and brown invaded his vision with the whiteness and faintness of clouds.

He reached into his pocket, the bag of sweet safely placed there. Closing his blue eyes, John let his fingertips feel the warmth and vague security leaking from it. He had given Lestrade a bunch of bell-flowers, white and tided together nicely with a red ribbon, which was the courtesy of Lady Gin – John'd really looked up at the old woman with open surprise and wide blue eyes, staring contemplating-y as she worked miracle to the thing, very gently touching John's flowers.

Receiving flowers from The Child was a true honor. But it was not about formal or political things and seeing the look in Lestrade's warm eyes and smile, John knew Lestrade understood.

The thank you and gratefulness that was left unsaid, yet surely not unknown.

When the Mayor knelt down and rested his lips on John's knuckles in formality again, the man's silver hair seemed to truly brought ages, Lestrade was all of a sudden so very much old and time-worn, and John could hear him saying softly and sternly. (John had hoped, had dreamed Lestrade was a long-lost father, missing somewhere and now found to fulfill John's longing, to gift John a stable, kind and steady figure before John went, to make his childish heart less sobbing and tremble.)

"Be safe, be safe, John."

**xxx **

Nights to John, a week ago, was full of bedtime wonders. Tales from thick books and various nannies' own minds about heroes, knights, princes and princesses, witches and adventurers. And happy endings.

They always brought to John smiles and peaceful and adventurous dreams before and during the sleep, feeding his young mind the ideal and beauty of the world, letting his imagination run wild, making him hope and wonder for the tomorrow that was to come.

But right now, tangling with blanket and pillows, a fairy tale book tugging close to his chest where his heart kept beating and beating and beating, the room swimming in a sea of silence and full of patches light, his ears ringing with his own muttered words which had been long died down and gone in his throat, words that he read aloud every night from the book he was hugging to himself, his hues looking to the window of the plane – what sounds, what scenery were blocked outside? Where was John? Where was John now? –

John wanted the morrow to never come.

Lady Gin said one or two day at most their plane would finally land to the National Heathrow Airport and from there government car would take him to the High Palace. The old woman had explained in that neat and low voice of hers, her eyes betrayed nothing as John looked down at his haft-eaten breakfast, all appetite long lost, trying his best not to shuddered in fear.

He craved for Lestrade's candies, craved for the small warm upturn of the mouth, for the assuring minute squeeze of the hands. John wanted to reach into his coat pocket, to hold tight the red-brown bag in his little palms, bury his nose into it and search for the remained smell of sugar.

On the flying plane, John feel high and nauseous, the falling feeling creeping into his every bone, making him scared and suffocated at every step he took.

John finally let his lashes fall, blackness looming over, cornering him at the back of his own mind and dream.

**xxx**

The first flower John gave his mother was rose. It was when he was five. His chubby fists hold a bunch of them dearly, not minding the thorns digging into soft flesh, leaving cuts and blood to follow. His hands ached but the thought of the smile that graced his mother's lips brought all of it away. His mother always looked sad, the color which painted her clothes, the tightness of her gowns and the slimness of her structure breathing sorrow. Staring at her made John sad, made his heart throb in dull pain John didn't understand and made John eyes spicy as if pepper was stuck there refusing to go despite his frustrated rubbing palms.

John'd rushed to find his mother, looking up to maids and servants to ask "Where is Mum? Where is Mum?" with doleful irises and eager voice, running away before their concerned looks at his wounded hands stopped him for questions and something equally silly.

Harry out of nowhere stepped into his way, taking one of his hands, which cause some of the roses to fall off his grip, and frowning. He glared at his sister, round face and baby fat making the act much less intimidating. "What do you do with the flowers, Johnny? And what happened to your hands? They're all bloody!"

"My hands are fine! The roses are for mother," was the reply and Harry's face darkened. Her brow creased into a line adults would stop to look in surprise and worry. Even if Harry was older, John knew from everyone she was still much of a babe to act so adultery. "Don't," she warned as John eyes were on her in confuse and anger. What was wrong with John presenting his mother, their mother, his flowers (-raised just with seeds and his magical hands in impossible time)? Billy had boasted about giving his mother some on her birthday, wrapped clumsily with the help of other children, about how happy his mum had been, kissing him and making him cakes and sweets even when it was her day. John liked that too, liked to make his mother smile and proud of his little adorable thoughtful action. Maybe John's mum would be sad no longer, would be happy and hug John the dearest.

John puffed out his cheeks and took his hand back, stepping away from Harry's wary profile. His eyes were determined and John left his sister at the hallway without any other words.

John found his mother at the front door, talking to their butler, her back facing John. He shyly approached her, willing to catching her attention. His mother must have seen him then, for her head turned to his direction, looking at him and after that the bunch of flowers in his hands.

She flinched.

Strong enough to startled John, making his eyes widen in confused fear and his palms close around the thorny branches of the roses, which he hissed painfully at. Instantly fried away were the roses by his mother's hands, John's ear ringing with her shout for bandage and his fingers numbing with pain.

John let his irises meet his mother's, and he wanted to cower and weep at her look.

It was all broken.

It was full of fear, so much sadness, so much that John's little body couldn't bear it, crumbled with sobs and tears and the knowledge of what John could not comprehend.

In his blurry vision, choked throat and burning pain, John saw his flowers stepped on, crushed and disgusted like cursed things.

John remembered Harry shadowed eyes, painful things masked behind her orbs, warnings that John was so stubborn to listen to. Mother hugged him tightly and John couldn't breath. He wanted to push her off and ran to Harry, sobbing sorry and seeking for a safe grip.

John cried, harder and harder. His head was spinning and spinning.

And he woke up with a scream at the tip of his tongue.

**xxx**

In the Dragon's dream, there was no colors, only lights flashing and changing and mingling, creating sound of thoughts, of speeches, of the subconscious. This land bounded to Him, breathing his breathes, dripped with his energy.

He arched his long, slender and iridescently scaled silver back, the soil shifted after him, groaning as its creature buckled. The land was dying, and its Dragon knew it, for He would wake up soon, and for the depleted energy was being gradually drawn away, sucked up to continue lives, thousands and thousands of living roots clinging to the withering body of the land, of the Dragon.

The Dragon roared, in agony, in anger, making the earth quake.

_Human fools! You foolish children!_

And the ground shook again, quivering like fear under the Dragon's wrath. His bones, His muscles rolled up then stiffly strained, roaring.

_Where is **my Child**? **Where is my Child?**_

Rage flamed up the Dragon's icy heart, His dream full of startling, bold lights. Without His Child, the Dragon would never overcome his enrage, the feeling of being lied to - again, after another of His Child was dead, lied into the sleep that would last as though eternity, oh the rage of being humiliated by mere human beings, the rage that had been built up for so many millions and millions of years.

_How **dare** you all, Human?_

The land quaked violently, its people and other creatures cowered, shrieking and begging, fearing.

**_Where is my Child?_**

The lights in the Dragon's dream burst, and exploded, over and over again. Until everything was white. Oppressive white, silent white, the white of nothingness.

And then little sound tinkled, far off and away, creeping at the bottom of the whiteness. The Dragon listened closely, to sound that was like bouncing footsteps and laughter. In His mind, the Dragon slowly made out the figure of a child, golden head, bright blue eyes and bloody red roses. The boy ran with the flowers in hands, his laughing echoing like tiny, tiny bells; the Dragon looked with an intensity of a titled head and curiosity.

The boy stopped and turned his head round, staring like he could see the Dragon, like he could see in the Dragon's mind. A smile graced the boy lips, soft and childish and much more. A tiny drop of blood dripped from little hands, falling and staining the whiteness.

His dream shifted once more, and the Dragon felt lights flooding back, with colors and energy.

_My Child._

The Dragon rested back, body still, with mind in dream full of lights.

The land slowly quit quivering, as though the havoc had never happened.

**XXX**


End file.
